


The Slytherin House Diaries

by thequidditchpitch_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Drama, Heroes to Villains, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, The Quidditch Pitch: Going Under
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-26
Updated: 2007-05-26
Packaged: 2018-10-27 15:45:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10812039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequidditchpitch_archivist/pseuds/thequidditchpitch_archivist
Summary: A week in the life of Severus Snape. (OotP timeline, HG/SS-centric)





	The Slytherin House Diaries

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

Not a breath of air moved in the sullen early twilight. No birdcalls heralded the coming storm front as the light faded, casting a bruised and ominous visage over the countryside.

Nymphadora Tonks, Auror Third Class, stood silently in a copse of trees. Her vantage point just outside the anti-Apparition wards provided a clear view of a dilapidated valley farmhouse, its whitewashed exterior having seen too many seasons. Low masonry walls extended in all directions from an adjacent barn, delineating the dominion of sharp-boned cows and fallow fields. A flash of movement caught her eye as a lone figure mounted on a broom was silhouetted briefly against the darkening sky – a very late arrival to the monthly meeting.

An echoing _crack_ , muffled by distance, drew her attention to a rutted dirt road that carved through the forest to slope gently into the valley farmlands. _‘Thunder, or Apparition?’_ Instinctively, her hand tightened on the wand concealed in her coat pocket. A few more moments passed as the light faded and evening mists formed wispy trails through the lowlands.

She could clearly see dark shapes separating from the shadowed tree line, moving stealthily in the lee of the walls toward the farmhouse. She had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach that warned these figures were not late arrivals, not approaching with such stealth. They were predators keeping pace with the approaching storm.

The people inside the farmhouse were the prey.

Peering through the gathering gloom, she could not spot her partner, Dobson, who was _supposed_ to be keeping watch from the barn. Slipping away from her hiding place, she ran toward the farmhouse. The rain began to fall in warm splatters as the last rays of light surrendered to the storm, plunging the valley into darkness.

**~*~**

The first rumbles of thunder rattled the squares of glass in the wooden window frames. A round of bread lay cooling on the stone hearth dominating one end of the farmhouse’s great room. From a cauldron suspended from crewkes over low flames, the steaming sweetness of braised roots mingling with oily meat was easily detectible to his well-trained nose. At the wooden table in the corner of the cooking area, two sallow-faced children –- brother and sister by their shared lacklustre straw-coloured hair and pointed chins –- sat in silence. Heads bowed over scrolls of parchment, the scratching of quills against rough-hewn table planks was their only contribution to the gathering.

Turning away from the children, he observed that there were now around forty souls gathered. Two of the men had wands out, casting levitation spells to move the last of the wooden chairs to resting places against the wall, leaving the middle of the great room furnished only with pillows and quilts. The low murmur of voices rose in impatience. Men’s work boots clunked dully on the wooden floor, whilst long calico skirts and wool robes swished as the regulars greeted each other and waited restlessly for the start of the meeting.

“I think that is all we are having tonight,” called out Althorp Dawes, the progenitor of the children’s fallow hair and sharp chins. He added the latest arrival’s broom to the stack by the door. “We’d best be started.”

Obligingly, everyone present formed a lop-sided circle and came to a respectful silence waiting for the usual formalities before reports were to be given.

Almost everyone.

“Oh, here we go again, eh, Snape?” a wizard called Peasgood whispered hoarsely, wiping his sweaty palms against the faded green velvet of his unbuttoned frock coat in apparent anticipation.

Nodding in confirmation, Severus Snape continued his silent study of the floorboards. To the uninitiated, he seemed reverently meditative on the opening events of the meeting. Fellow Order members of longer standing knew him to be just as bored as they were by yet another “recruitment” session. At least the potential for entertainment was there in the presence of Mrs Simms; if by entertainment one meant a train wreck.

“I have five Sickles riding on this, let the floor show begin,” Peasgood whispered, wheezing slightly, his throat troubled by the smoke from pipes and the cooking fire. Snape’s gaze lifted from the floor to focus on his companion, a middle-aged man of short stature with nondescript brown hair and rheumy blue eyes. Although smartly attired in his best frock coat and polished brown leather boots, his greying shirt was damp with excessive perspiration, and his face was pale with beads of sweat clinging to sallow skin. In contrast to Snape’s meticulous attire, Peasgood’s frock coat hung open, and given their distance from the great stone fireplace, there was no reason for the man’s obvious discomfort.

Reaching inside his robes, Snape produced a slim phial of clear red liquid, sealed by cork and wax, and offered it silently to the man beside him.

Shaking his head, Peasgood grinned, and with a wink, brought forth from his waistcoat pocket a silver flask. He took a quick pull from the ornate flask and it disappeared again into his clothing. “ _This_ is the medicine to cure what ails me, Snape,” he said, emitting the strong scent of alcohol and patting his pocket.

Wanting to argue the point, Snape opened his mouth only to have Peasgood shush him, his attention focussed greedily on the host, who was glaring at them. Reluctantly, Snape followed suit, securing the phial back into his robes.

Dawes began, “Thank you all for coming out this afternoon; we shall start this meeting by re-affirming our common intent and purpose - ”

He was interrupted by a sharply unpleasant, “Hem, hem,” followed by an exaggerated throat clearing.

At the familiar mannerism of Mrs Simms, Snape could feel the muscle twitches begin along his right eye.

“Yes, Mrs Simms?” Dawes gritted out through clenched teeth.

“We have not offered our thanks and gratitude to He who has led us out of despair and darkness, Althorp. Surely, you would not begrudge all of us who know His ways the opportunity to invoke His protection for us all,” she simpered.

In that moment of strained silence, thunder rumbled as the storm grew stronger.

“What’s this ‘all of us’ shit?” Peasgood muttered. “I count three: her, her cat, and her nightmare of a sister at the Ministry.”

Althorp Dawes’ lower lip stretched impossibly thin; it appeared he was literally biting his tongue. To avoid prolonging the agony, he merely inclined his head and rejoined the circle.

His acquiescence was met with subdued muttering and the discreet exchange of a few coins as friendly wagers among the regulars were dispensed. An unseen participant remarked, “Oh, not that ruddy invocation business again,” and was met with laughter. Peasgood gleefully pocketed a handful of silver coins from his shrewd bet.

Ignoring their reactions, Mrs Simms, a largish woman of fifty-one winters, dressed in a sickly shade of green from head to toe, stepped into the centre of the group and, in the best imitation of Hogwarts’ Divination professor since Minerva got into the scotch at the staff Christmas party, began to wave her arms dramatically, bellowing to each corner of the room in turn.

“Mighty Serpent, Guardian of the Realms of the East. Your tongue is a sharp sword, cutting with the knowledge of the arcane. Your spirit flows as graceful as a swift in flight. Purify us with truth.”

Althorp rolled his eyes, but remained silent.

“Mighty Dragon, Guardian of the Realms of the South, your breath is aflame with the fires of inspiration and passion. Your spirit is searing and fervent. Purify us with Love of the Chosen people.” Her voice was now loud enough to drown out the thunder.

“You reckon he ought try a pinch of spearmint for that searing breath?” Peasgood leaned in close to Snape for a moment.

Severus’ snort of amusement was quickly covered up by a convenient cough.

“Mighty Serpent, Guardian of the Realms of the West, your coils are the cleansing, healing waves that nurture the soul. Purify us with pulsing tides.”

With that pronouncement, Peasgood was again up against Snape’s ear to impart his take on the subject’s ‘pulsing tides’, but stopped short at Snape’s slight headshake.

“Mighty Lord, Guardian of the Realms of the North, your talons run like roots into the earth, giving you strength eternal. Your spirit is substantial, hard and pure like a clear crystal. Purify us with persistent wisdom.”

Delivering this last verbal crescendo with a particularly emphatic flourish of arm waving, her many rings casting reflections from the green stones and gems adorning her fingers, she paused expectantly for acknowledgement of her work. When appreciation was not forthcoming, she slunk back to the now disintegrating circle, and claimed an over-sized pillow. Sitting stiffly, she looked on in disapproval at the younger women who were reclining casually on the quilts, whispering to each other, and ‘showing far more of their legs and arms than should be allowed in decent company’ she sniffed.

“Yes, thank you for that... that-” Dawes finished awkwardly, at a loss for how to describe Mrs Simm’s eccentricities to the newcomers. He glanced those assembled. A mixture of fear, anger and curiosity, especially amongst the new faces tonight, but as always, it was underscored by a world-worn weariness, the despondency that had gripped the wizarding world since the last rise of You-Know-Who. Centring himself mentally, he launched straight into the opening spiel.

“Friends, we are gathered together to discuss our future, and that of our children. Evil forces are rising, holding sway over our way of life; indeed, our very existence as magical beings has been called into question. This evil permeates the Ministry, influences the Wizengamot, and even corrupts our teachers and Healers.”

More than one onlooker glanced Snape's way, their gazes travelling curiously over his dark teaching robes.

“No place is free from the withering touch of this pretender to the throne of Merlin. His forces oppress our people, depriving us of our rights as free-born wizards and witches. He attacks peace-loving folk without reason or cause, and he grows bolder with each passing day. We must join together to defeat the enemy, for alone we risk losing ourselves to the coming conflict.”

Snape watched the faces of those gathered in the great room. Women suckled infants while perched on the floor pillows, intently following Dawes' impassioned speech, clutching their children a bit tighter as if to protect them from the looming evil. Men stood in small groups, speaking to those nearby in low voices, or simply nodding in agreement with the speech.

All seemed ordinary, but, as lightning flashed across the sky and rain began to pound the wooden roof, his earlier feeling of complacency fled. He turned away from the now darkened windows with a growing sense of unease.

Everything here was familiar, yet something felt… wrong.

Taking his leave of Peasgood with a gentle touch on the man’s shoulder, Snape quietly stole up the wooden staircase to check on the _real_ meeting. The strategy session would doubtless prove far more interesting than trying to convince the provincials to join the cause.

He neared the half-way point on the staircase and froze, his mind's eye processing what he had glimpsed just seconds ago – a shadow in the darker storm where none ought to be. In that last illuminating flash, he had caught an impression of a dark form through the window, wand hand raised.

**~*~** The intruders burst through the front door as if borne of the raging storm. From the staircase, Snape saw black-cloaked figures curse the gathered families without hesitation or mercy. The shrill wail of an infant torn from its mother’s breast rose briefly over the din of shouts and hurled objects as those below tried vainly to defend themselves.

Peasgood was backed into a corner, his hands raised above his head in supplication, but was hexed anyway - a Stunner by way his body went rigid and then fell bonelessly to the floor.

There was no time to see more; one of the figures spotted him on the stairwell and shouted, his hood slipping backwards as he raised an accusatory arm.

As the figure’s foot touched the first step, Snape could barely make out his cry of, “Severus Snape, you are hereby bound by law to stand – ooof!” A chair struck the young Auror across the back, and he crumpled into a heap, blocking the other Aurors’ progress to the stairs. Resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the young man’s ineptitude, Snape rapidly fired hexes at the three Aurors clustered below.

“Severus, come!” Lucius Malfoy called urgently from the top of the stairs.

A sudden movement at the front door signalled the arrival of Nymphadora Tonks, looking like a drowned rat in her Muggle attire. _She never was on time for classes, meetings or anything else_ , Snape recalled wryly, _why should this debacle be any different?_

Ignoring Lucius’s entreaty, Snape continued to fight the Aurors.

Some of the return fire from those gathered for the Dark Order meeting was hitting uncomfortably close to the fallen Auror. While fending off the occasional bolt sent his way from below, Snape quickly sent ‘friendly fire’ Stunners to those attempting to finish the job on the downed boy, counting on the confusion to cover his actions. The youngster was clearly inept and therefore precisely the type of Auror one in Snape’s position would wish to encourage to keep alive and on the job.

Fully half of the attendees had either reached Portkeys, or were unconscious amidst the chaos below. Tonks had fought her way over to the contingent of Aurors and seemed to be having an exchange of angry words with one of them. With an air of defiance, the chastised Auror straightened to his full height, ignoring both the steady stream of hexes flying around him and the furious tirade from Miss Tonks. The target of her fury paused a moment, waiting for the men flanking him to send a volley of spells at Snape, then aimed carefully, slipping past his defences with a sizzle of yellow energy.

Pain seared through his ribs and chest, and Snape lost his footing. “Severus!” Malfoy cried, leaving the relative safety of the upper landing, to reach out to his fallen comrade. “Take my hand, old friend. I can pull you up,” he urged.

“No, go!” Snape panted, his right arm wedged tightly between his ribs and the floor, as he fired awkward curses left-handed. “Go, now!”

With a last anguished look at the man lying on the stairs, Lucius turned and ran for the Portkey the others had readied in the attic room. “There’s no one else coming,” he gasped. “Do it now.”

**~*~**

 


End file.
